


Cinnamon and Salt

by Dragonsquill (dragonsquill)



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: AU, Baking, Dwarves in the Shire, Fluff, M/M, Mentioned: Thorin and Ri Brothers, hobbit reverse big bang 2014
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-11
Updated: 2014-12-11
Packaged: 2018-02-28 21:41:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,012
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2748095
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragonsquill/pseuds/Dragonsquill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For the Hobbit Reverse Big Bang, 2014:<br/>In the Shire, the biggest event of the year is always the Harvest Festival, filled with toys, games, haggling, dances, and ale.  But every <i>three</i> years were known among the Hobbits as the Dwarf Festival, when the dwarves could come down from the Blue Mountains and haggle for goods while selling their own wondrous creations.</p><p>There was always a proper decorum upheld, of course, between two such different races.  It was all about business between the Hobbits and the Dwarves. </p><p>At least, it was until a young Dwarf named Bofur made the acquaintance of one Master Bilbo Baggins, of Bag End.  Then it became all about...baking?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Cinnamon Scones

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thejerseydevile](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thejerseydevile/gifts).



> For The Hobbit Reverse Big Bang, 2014: art by [thejerseydevile](http://thejerseydeviledoodleblog.tumblr.com/) on tumblr! She was a delight to work with and I am still squeeing with delight over her adorable artwork. *dances happily* I'm so honored to have been able to write for such a magnificent, fluffy prompt and lovely art. 
> 
> Her prompt was this adorable cover image!:  
> 
> 
> [Blanket Permission Statement](http://dragonsquill.tumblr.com/permission)

As a lad, Bilbo’s favorite time of the year was the Harvest Festival.

He didn’t know at the time how busy many of the Hobbits at the festival were: the farmers presenting their best goods for inspection and haggling prices; the buyers doing the inspecting and trying to get a fair deal; the merchants and craftsmen taking advantage of the gathering crowds to sell their wares; and everyone stocking up on certain goods to cover them for another year. More money exchanged hands at the Harvest Festival than the rest of the year combined, and livelihoods could be made or broken in only a week’s time.

To Bilbo and the other children, it was all about the fun and sweets. Treats of all kinds were baked and sold, blacksmiths set up small shops, musicians played at every curve and corner, traders and shopkeepers set up booths for kitchenware, art, books, toys, and trinkets. Autumn flowers were sold in bunches and pots, and many an engagement began at the harvest festival dance. 

A field was kept open for team sports, but there were also game booths with prizes that varied from sweets to small sock toys to wooden puzzles. Children were allowed to run throughout the fair, as all adults considered children in their care and would keep an eye on them. Such glorious freedom went right to the heads of all the preteens, used to being under their parents’ eyes until the advent of that magical thirteenth birthday.

There was only one thing better than the regular harvest festival, and that was the dwarf festival, as the locals called it. This was when the dwarves from the neighboring Blue Mountains came down, every three years, to participate with booths and blacksmith services. 

Bilbo had seen the Blue Mountains once when his mother had taken him for a long walkabout Michael Delving, including up one of the mountains (mountains his mother assured him were actually quite small, more like hills than mountains; while his father had assured him he would not be climbing anything so “unnaturally high” and instead stayed at the base cooking dinner). He’d been tired and slightly bruised when he reached the top, but thrilled at the sight of the distant mountain range, dark blue-gray against the summer sky. 

“I’m going to visit the dwarves one day,” he announced breathlessly, and his mother had laughed and hugged him and made him promise to take her along.

 _This_ year, the year of Bilbo’s ninth birthday, was a Dwarf Harvest Festival. Even more exciting, the festival was to be _right by his home_ in Hobbiton for the first time since he was far too little to remember it. Bilbo, whose mother raised him on more stories of the outside world than your average Hobbit, was quite possibly the most excited lad in all of Hobbiton.

“I’m going to meet dwarves!” he informed his mother excitedly as she ran a comb through his hair the morning of the festival. “I’m going to bow and say, ‘Bilbo Baggins, son of Bungo and Belladonna, at your service!”

His mother laughed, ruffling her fingers through his now tangle-free curls. “You only have to say son of Bungo, my love, because you’re a boy.”

Bilbo shook his head so hard his mother nearly dropped the comb. “No, no, I want to say both of you,” very firmly indeed. Because of course it was his mother who made friends with dwarves and all of them would know her name, he was sure of it. But his father was the one who baked and kept everyone at the festival fed with the very best sweets in all of Hobbiton!

Belladonna turned her son around and kissed his forehead. “Well,” she said with a warm smile, “I’m sure they won’t mind, and they’ll like that you’re greeting them their way. Just keep in mind, darling, that you are to be polite to the dwarves at all time.” She hesitated a moment before adding, “Their prince has come with them, and he will probably walk through the fair at times. So even though we are always polite, it’s extra important this year.”

Bilbo’s hazel eyes flew wide as his mouth dropped open. _“Really?! A prince?! Like in the stories?!”_ he all but squeaked, ideas already flitting through his head of white ponies and great quests. “Oh, oh, _oh_! Can I give him one of the scones Papa and I made? Can I? They have cinnamon! I bet dwarves love cinnamon! And maybe some flowers?!”

“Now darling, I don’t think you’ll meet the prince, he’ll be busy with your grandfathers, talking about their order from the harvest-”

“I helped make the blackberry crumb cakes, too! I could give him one of those!” Bilbo darted down the hallway, unheeding of his mother’s gentle words. “Papa! Papa! I need a box for the prince!”

\---

Bofur had never been to the Shire before.

Miners, as a rule, weren’t much for traveling out of the mountain. Most dwarves were homebodies, preferring rich, deep stone to the open emptiness of the sky, and miners most of all. Bofur’s own parents had never left the depths of the mountain and extolled the healthy virtues of proper mountain living at every opportunity. His mother had been horrified when their son, one year from his majority, had put in a request to be a member of the party going to the Shire.

“You’ll catch your death!” his mother cried, horrified, and no amount of argument that dwarves didn’t get sick and they were travelling safe, established roads constantly run by Rangers, and they would have a full dwarven guard led by the formidable Dwalin, son of Fundin, did anything to assuage her fears. She’d even managed to get his little brother Bombur worked up over the whole thing, and Bombur was not a dwarf who got worked up easily. “Sleepy” was often a preferred adjective for Bofur’s sibling. 

His father, however, had hugged him and sent him on this way. “Let the boy have a bit of adventure!” he’d chided Bofur’s mother (though fondly). “He’ll be hard at work next year.”

Bofur was thrilled to be accepted into the party, even though it wasn’t unusual for dwarves near their Coming of Age to get a spot. Their prince was a stoic dwarf, but he was also kind and fair in unexpected ways (and Bofur had not, he was pleased to say, made a complete fool of himself during his five second introduction to Prince Thorin, who would be leading the party; only a tiny bit of one, babbling his hello and garbling his father’s name “Kefur” as “Kofur;” it could have been worse).

The trip took only three days, and then – the Shire.

Bofur thought it was beautiful.

But he’d always had a bit of an odd aesthetic. 

Little green hills rolled everywhere, dotted with bright flowers and round doors he could only think of as “cute” (an adjective not much embraced by his culture as a whole). The residents were even more so: soft and round, with curly hair, bright, colorful clothes, and scandalously bare feet he’d been sternly warned not to stare at. The fair was fun as well, noisy and colorful but not as . . . well, less ale flowed than at a dwarvish fair and he’d yet to see a single fistfight. In fact, Hobbits were the most amiable people he’d ever met, constant knots of gossipers notwithstanding. And the _children_ – well.

Those were the cutest living beings he had ever seen, and he’d seen Bombur as a wee one.

His favorite, though, was a light-haired, hazel-eyed youngling with two missing teeth who introduced himself on the first morning out. Bofur had been assigned as an assistant to one of the shop sellers offering gardening wares. Bofur knew nothing about gardening, but he was friendly and outgoing (rare for a dwarf), and knew good craftsmanship and how to sell it, so the job went well enough.

He’d just finished selling a set of hand tools when a high, piping voice sang out, “Mr. Dwarf!”

Bofur looked down at a curly mop of hair and big eyes that were wide with barely-contained excitement. The cheeks were rosy, the nose was small, and the hands were full.

Adorable, little Hobbits.

“Aye, lad, what can I do for you?” he asked amiably, and shifted down to one knee for a better conversation. 

“My name,” the little Hobbit continued, and his voice took on a careful , practiced tone, “is Master Bilbo Baggins, son of Bungo and Belladonna Baggins, of Bag End.” He took in a little gulp of air in deference for such a long introduction. “At your service.”

And then he executed a sharp little bow.

Bofur grinned. 

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Master Bilbo Baggins, son of Bungo and Belladonna, of Bag End.” What a lot of B’s, he thought, though really, he couldn’t say much. “My name’s Bofur, son of Kefur, at yours.” And he bowed as best he could from a half-kneeling position.

The mite beamed at him. Then, he took a deep breath – and started talking.

“I’ve never met a dwarf before, you’re my _very_ first, though my mama likes the dwarves a lot and writes letters to them. Mama said this year the prince would be here, and I was looking around because I’m not sure what a prince is, but Papa said the prince is the son of a king and a king is kind of like the Thain and the Thain is very nice so of course the prince must be very nice and of all the dwarves here you’re the nicest. You smile the most.”

Bofur blinked. Did this child think-

“And since you’re the prince, I brought you a present.” He lifted the little box in his hands, which showed signs of being carried about a bit too tightly by small, slightly grubby hands.

“Ah,” Bofur said, sorting through the babble and greatly amused by the reasoning. No Dwarf would assume the nicest person in the room was a prince; more likely it would be the stiffest, most _uptight_ one. “I’m not-“

“It’s pastries! I made them. Well,” he looked at the box, then at Bofur, and allowed full disclosure, “Papa helped. A little. Well. A lot, because I can’t do the stove yet, _but_ I did lots and lots of mixing and I helped put them on the sheets and I took them off the racks and I folded this box myself and picked special things to put in it. There’s a crumb cake and a scone and a tea cake and a slice of pound cake because that’s Mama’s favorite.”

“Listen, I’m just-”

Bilbo Baggins of Bag End shoved the box into his hands with a beaming smile that showed both missing teeth to full advantage. “I promise you’ll like it! Papa is the best, the best,” he said this with something like a tiny growl, “baker in the _whole Shire._ ”

Baking was clearly serious business when one was a tiny Hobbit.

“Laddie, it’s kind of you to give me this-”

“You’re welcome!”

“But you see, I’m not-”

A hand thumped the back of Bofur’s head and he looked up, startled.

“Get up,” Torgan the shopkeeper hissed urgently. “The prince is coming. You need to look like you’re _selling_ something, not communing with babies.”

“I am not a _baby_!” Bilbo gasped, horrified, “I’m nine!” 

Torgan was a fierce female (though Bofur had been warned not to expect Hobbits to recognize her as such), famous for her lovely beard and powerful demeanor. She was not cowed by a hobbitling. “Be that as it may, young master,” she informed him, “I’ll have Bofur looking his best.” She grabbed one of Bofur’s braids. “Up lad, up, up! We stand before the prince!”

Bofur saw the moment it sunk in to Bilbo’s little head exactly what Torgan was saying. “The _prince_?!” he demanded, little hands flying to his hips. 

Bofur nudged him a bit out of the way. “Aye. You didn’t let me get a word in edgewise-” he muttered out of the side of his mouth.

“You said _you_ were the prince!”

Torgan shot him a sharp look. Bofur raised one hand defensively, not in the mood to be arrested for impersonating royalty on such a fine day. The other hand still held the box of pastries. “I didn’t! He assumed and wouldn’t let me say anything!” A beat, then, “ _Please_ don’t call Dwalin, his hands are bigger than my entire head!”

“Shush!” Torgan turned her fierce glare on Bilbo. “And you too!”

Bilbo, erring on the side of caution, shifted a bit behind Bofur, but he still glared up and said, “He took the treats I made for the prince!”

“You shoved them at me-!”

Another thwap to the head, this one hard enough to sting, and Bofur snapped to attention as Prince Thorin and his party appeared around the bend in the booths. Thorin looked tall, strong, and composed as ever, talking quietly with each craftsman as he passed. To Torgan, he wished a good morning and inquired after sales, before offering Bofur a nod (Bofur did _not_ blush), and letting his cool eyes flicker over Bilbo before he continued to the next booth. 

There was silence a moment.

Then:

“Gimme back my box!”

Bofur felt a grin tug at his lips. Such righteous indignation. Bilbo was glaring at him, and his tiny fingers were wiggling as he held his hands out imperiously.

“You,” Bofur informed Bilbo Baggins, son of Belladonna and Bungo, “ are a bit of a prince yourself. Very bossy.”

“I’m not bossy. These were for the _prince_ and you’re not the _prince_ you _lied._ ”

Bofur rolled his eyes. “You assumed and wouldn’t let me set you straight.”

“Give the bratling his food and get back to work!” Torgan snapped. “There’s always curious Hobbits following along after the prince, and we want them to shop here!”

Bofur handed over the now slightly-more-squashed box, this time by the large, nervous hands of a dwarf about to meet the prince for a second time. “My liege,” he said.

Bilbo hugged the pastries to his chest and eyed Bofur suspiciously. “What’s a liege?” he asked, eyes narrowed.

“It’s what we call our king and our prince,” Bofur said, “when we want to kiss up a bit.”

Bilbo considered this. Then he opened the box and pulled out a triangular pastry Bofur had never seen before. “You can have the scone,” he declared, “even though you _lied_ and aren’t the prince, because it’s mean to give a present and take it away.” 

Bofur bowed deeply, as befitted a spoiled princeling (they had a couple of those running around the mountain), and accepted the gift with all the gravity he could muster. “Thank you, Master Baggins.”

Bilbo nodded. “Don’t lie to people anymore, though,” he admonished, and waggled an index finger at him. “It’s not nice.”

“Yes, sir.”

Bilbo nodded once, smartly, and took off at a run after the prince’s party.

Bofur laughed, low chuckles in his chest, and took a curious nibble of the pastry. It was dry, and crumbled into his precious mustache, but the cinnamon gave it a lovely bite.


	2. Steak and Kidney Pie

Bofur didn’t recognize him at first.

But of course, why _would_ he? The last time he’d seen this particular Hobbit (or, well, any Hobbit, having spent the last two decades in the mines), he’d been a tiny lad with more sass than teeth. This was the first delegation Bofur’d managed to become a part of since his first, and that because his cousin Bifur wasn’t fit to come and sell his delicate toys himself, and had nominated Bofur in his stead (Bofur denied all rumors that he begged or bribed his way into being Bifur’s representative). Bofur had expected, if he did run into his old acquaintance, he’d see a scrawny half-grown sprout of a Hobbit, as a dwarf would have been at thirty or so. He had not expected this: a fully-grown, delightfully plump, curly-haired, pink-cheeked creature, seated at a booth covered in delicious looking-and-smelling pastries.

In fact, he’d changed so that Bofur wouldn’t have known it was Bilbo Baggins, son of Bungo and Belladona, of Bag End, had a rather snooty looking female dwarf not called the Hobbit by name while chastising him for “charging _family_ , really, Bilbo!” as he held a firm hand over a tart she was eyeing with clear interest.

At the name, Bofur did a double-take.

“I wouldn’t want to deny you an opportunity to donate to the community building fund,” Bilbo Baggins replied with such a magnificent combination of polite diffidence and twitchy-nosed sass that Bofur couldn’t stop a grin from creeping in amongst his mustache. “I know how much you want to support our farmers in times of crisis.”

The Hobbit female puffed up a bit, twirling her umbrella. “Well, of _course_ I want to help as much as I can-!”

Bilbo smiled at her and held out one small hand. “Then that’ll be three coppers,” he said politely, and wiggled his fingers. They were longer and thinner than a dwarf’s, and somehow managed to express a level of impatient sass fingers shouldn’t be capable of. 

Bofur almost laughed aloud as the difficult female relative dug in her colorful little purse and pulled out several coins. She ignored the wiggling fingers, opting instead to toss the money petulantly on the table before snatching up her pastry and flouncing off in a puff of colorful skirts.

 _Well played_ , Bofur thought, somehow pleased that, though his little nemesis had managed to grow up overnight, he was still a bit of trouble and bother. 

The scent of those pastries was also rather calling to him, as the whole reason he was wandering around was to grab some food before returning to his own booth, so Bofur dug around in the pocket of his old coat (freshly cleaned and dried in the sunshine for the trip into the Shire), and extricated a few silver coins of his own. They were Hobbitish coins, exchanged upon arrival from his own dwarvish ones, though he’d been told the Hobbits were so familiar with dwarvish money (seen, naturally, as the best crafted and most reliable in all of Arda) they’d usually take either. 

“Good afternoon,” he said as he approached the booth, because that was how Hobbits greeted each other. Why they felt the need to announce that an afternoon was good he didn’t know; especially since he had been told by dwarves more experienced in their dealings with Hobbits that you never said _bad afternoon_ or _tolerable afternoon_ or _wonderful afternoon_. You always insisted that the afternoon was good, no matter what you really thought of it. Ah, well. This _was_ a good afternoon, so it suited.

Bilbo Baggins looked up. At first glance, Bofur was sure he’d been recognized – the eyes widened, the eyebrows lifted a little, and the lips parted. But it passed almost immediately, replaced by a politely interested expression as Bilbo said, “Good afternoon to you, Master Dwarf. How might I help you?” 

There was a flash of ridiculous disappointment at this, but Bofur was not a dwarf who allowed himself to be distracted by disappointment. “Thought I might buy some pastries, but I don’t know what’s good.” He grinned. “What do you suggest?”

\----

It took a moment.

No, more like a second. One second, for Bilbo to recognize this dwarf from amongst all the dwarves. With those beards and all their dull layers, most Hobbits claimed that all dwarves looked the same, but Bilbo disagreed. They were easily as distinguishable as Hobbits. And this one, though he had more hair on his chin than when they last met and his braids were arranged differently (twin plaits that rather reminded Bilbo of some of his little cousins being braided up to put to bed), _this_ one was the one Bilbo had once assaulted with pastry and then told off for not interrupting a rambling Hobbit child who had everything wrong.

 _Bofur, son of Kefur_ , his brain supplied spitefully, the same brain that regularly forgot major details like the days for collecting the rent or what evening he was supposed to head out for a dinner party. _Really_?! he demanded of his memory, but no response or explanation was forthcoming.

He didn’t blush.

He was determined not to blush, and so he didn’t. 

“Good after noon to you, Master Dwarf. How might I help you?”

Yes, that was the way to play it. Complete strangers. He could sell this as _I’m clearly too old to remember a trifling (terribly embarrassing) event from my childhood._

He saw surprise register in the jolly face (and _really,_ it wasn’t _fair_ , he looked just the same age he had last they’d met, as dwarves did, and so Bilbo couldn’t even properly hope that he might have forgotten their encounter in his old age), but the dwarf recovered quickly and requested a recommendation.

Now this, Bilbo could handle.

“Among the best pastries in the Shire,” he said modestly. If it wasn’t for Widow Blackfoot from Buckland, he could claim the best, he was sure of it. “Everything’s excellent.”

The dwarf made a considering sound. He had a neat beard that covered his face but wasn’t nearly as long as many Bilbo had seen, and a longer, sleek bunch of hair over his lip – he thought maybe they called it a mustache. Bilbo thought he was rather handsome as dwarves went, not that it had anything to do with him, a lad not quite in his full majority yet. 

“Not sure I can carry everything,” Bofur said with a little grin, “might tip over. That’s a lot of food.” 

Bilbo fought the urge to roll his eyes.

Dwarves, the Took had told him, were very literal people. And the Took would know, since he dealt with them every time they came to the Shire, and not just when the Dwarf Festival was hosted in the Tookland, as it was this year. Bilbo’s grandfather was well-trusted by both Dwarves and Hobbits, and so was currently in conference with their prince about the next three years of supplies the Hobbits would be providing to the Mountain. 

“I didn’t mean you should take one of everything,” he explained in what he thought might be a calm and reasonable voice, though his father would probably disagree, “only that anything you take will be good.”

The dwarf looked over his wares carefully (really, Bilbo had other, less _embarrassing_ customers to see to, it couldn’t be _this_ hard to pick a pastry!), and finally said, “I’m running a booth nearby.” He motioned to the savory pies and puddings, “And I don’t have an assistant, really, just someone covering for a few minutes. So what will get me through the end of the day?”

Bilbo’s jaw dropped. “The _end of the day_?! It’s only _lunchtime_!”

“Well. Aye. So something filling’s what I’m asking for.”

Bilbo stared at him. “Something to get you through luncheon, afternoon tea, _and_ dinner? You’d need a pie the size of a pony!”

Bofur laughed.

It was a nice laugh, deeper than one a Hobbit would have, down in his chest, but he laughed with enthusiasm and without reserve. “Dwarves make do with three meals,” he grinned, “so one good-sized pie will get me through, as long as there’s plenty of meat in it!” 

Bilbo felt a bit suspicious (Dwarves were _bigger_ than Hobbits; not nearly so tall as Men, but still taller than hobbits as well as broader and thicker, so they should need _more_ food, not less), but he decided to take Bofur at his word and directed him to their most popular and largest meat pie. Bofur agreed easily, didn’t haggle the price (most dwarves drove a hard bargain), and took his pie with a bow.

“Until we meet again, Mister Baggins,” he said formally, then winked and stomped off in that way dwarves did.

Bilbo let his head thunk down on the table as he felt his ears burns.

He hadn’t introduced himself, which could mean only one thing:

The dwarf _definitely_ remembered him.

\-----

The pie, Bofur discovered, was delicious: flaky, well-seasoned, and though the hobbit had bunged in green things, as Hobbits do, there was more meat and gravy than anything else. Bofur’s mother was a cook for their mining team, and so excellent that Bofur was more than a little bit of snob in these matters. 

It was only because of his deep interest in good pastry that Bofur found time to pop by Bilbo’s booth for lunch each day of the rest of his stay. And it was only out of the goodness of his heart (his mama, after all, having raised him right), that he found little ways to be helpful, moving this troublesome barrel, adjusting that crooked sign, testing this small pastry for poison, adjusting that slightly crooked table leg. 

It wasn’t _his_ fault that Mr. Bilbo Baggins, of Bag End, always got a tad huffy in the face of basic dwarvish manners. Not his fault at all.

The fact that he found it hilarious, standing with some planks of wood he brought from his own stand and asking, “And where would you like these?” in his most cheerful voice, that Mr. Baggins huffed and puffed and was too polite to say he had no idea where that lumber came from much less where to _put_ it, and instead stared at him a moment before pointing to the ground beside his table and saying, “Ah, there please,” in a tone that magically sounded annoyed and polite at once was, however, Bofur’s fault.

But he didn’t regret it.


	3. Shire Cake

Bofur heard about Bilbo before he saw him.

Bofur had managed to get a spot in the caravan thanks to Bifur’s stock and his own, more modest contributions, and he (rather smugly) suspected he might be a regular from now on. There weren’t a lot of regulars; this was, admittedly, due in large part to the fact that the majority of dwarves didn’t like being away from the mountain. There was more to it than that, though. He had a skill that the Hobbits appreciated. They were clever with wood, but they couldn’t make the sort of moving parts and gears Bifur could manage, and Bifur certainly wasn’t safe to come somewhere as noisy and colorful as Hobbiton. Bofur was more at ease with the Hobbits than other dwarves, as well, so he was seen as a good investment for his people. 

Hobbiton was a small area near the center of the Shire, in the West Farthing. Bofur couldn’t help feeling a fondness for it, since it had been the first part of the Shire he’d stayed in. He liked the local farmers, too; in Buckland they’d camped near Brandy Hall, and there were a lot of wealthier Hobbits there who didn’t quite know what to make of the dwarves. Farmers, though, they recognized people who worked with their hands when they met them, and so were a lot more comfortable with their visitors.

He was also extremely interested to learn that the biggest landowner in this lovely corner of the Shire was a family by the name of Baggins, head of the family name of Bungo. 

“Baggins?” he asked with a grin. He was walking, of course, no money for a pony or call for it deep in the mines. He’d been peppering fellow walkers with questions about the Shire and the Festivals, with little result, until someone far above his station heard his questions and called him over for answers.

At first, he’d been terribly nervous. He could imagine his brother’s reaction if Bombur learned he’d made a fool of himself and the entire family in front of a nobleman. He soon relaxed, though; Balin, son of Fundin, had the kindly air of a scholar who loved finding students in unlikely places. 

“Aye,” Balin answered. He was on a pony, a fine gray beast, carefully groomed, unlike the pack ponies that were still blowing bits of their winter coats. He wore rich red cloth at odds with Bofur’s finest clothes of homespun brown and black, but he wasn’t above talking to a miner pulling a heavy cart of toys. “Since they’re hosting the Festival this year, the head of the Baggins household should manage the entire festival, set up the meetings, and so on. It’s a busy job.” The prince’s advisor patted his chest, where the corner of a leather envelope barely poked out from the thick, fine wool. “There’s been a change this year, however.”

“A change? Why?” Bofur chuckled. “I met a Baggins, Bilbo Baggins, son of Bungo. Sold pastries last festival near my stall. He’s scrappy. I’m sure with an assistant like that, Bungo can get everything done.” 

Balin’s kind face fell. “Ah, that’d be why the change. The Bagginses – well, Bungo and his wife – died only a few months ago. His son should take over, but the Thain thought it best that he not have to take on something so involved so soon after their deaths. Especially as the lad’s only just come of age. So it’s the Thain we’ll be dealing with, rather than the Bagginses.”

“Oh,” Bofur said, because there was nothing else to say. He’d been there, he’d lived that; he couldn’t imagine that gap-toothed child bending under the weight of something so crushing. Hobbits seemed such delicate creatures, bare-cheeked like children, tucked in safe in their little burrows. 

He wondered what the etiquette was for a near stranger to express condolences among hobbits. When he asked, Balin didn’t have an answer.

Well, he’d just have to figure something out.

~~~~

Hobbiton was as charming as he remembered, louder and more cheerful than Buckland, with little hobbitlings running wild and farmers driving hard bargains with smiles on their faces. Luckily for Bofur, most of the running about hobbitlings had been outfitted with a bit of money, enough to buy some of his smaller offerings, which then enticed their parents to come back and look at the other items he had to sell. By lunchtime on the third day he was doing a brisk trade and knew most of the major families in the area: Boffins, Greenhands, Gamgees, Cottons, Rumbles, Sandymans (not a popular name, really, usually said with a sort of ominous look in the general directions of the mill), but only one Baggins. It was the brightly dressed young woman (she appeared to want to wear every color in the world at one time, and it made looking at her directly a bit disconcerting) he’d seen trying to weasel a free tart out of Bilbo three years earlier, and she immediately started blinking her eyes in a decidedly odd way the moment she stopped beside his booth.

He wondered if she had trouble seeing. Maybe he should see about bringing some of the glass-and-brass eyepieces that were coming into use in the mountain to sell next time.

“I’m sure we could negotiate on this price,” she said, blinking slowly and lowering her chin. 

“Afraid not, Miss,” Bofur returned cheerfully. “I’ve told you my rock-bottom, and when a dwarf talks about rocks, that’s exactly what he means.” 

“But Master…what was your name?”

“Bofur, miss.”

“Bofur.” She blinked again, fast this time, before bringing one of those delicate linen handkerchiefs they used to wipe their noses up to press against her lips. Why they made their noserags out of nice material instead of sensible old bits and bobs he didn’t know. “I am Mrs. Sackville-Baggins,” and she dipped into one of those Hobbit curtsies that Bofur always paid back with a proper dwarvish bow.

“Pleased, Miss,” he said as he straightened up from what felt like his hundredth bow of the day. “But knowing your name doesn’t change the price,” he added, and winked. 

She pinked up a bit, clearly too much time in the sun (no wonder, with those bare cheeks), and twittered. He didn’t know another word for it. It was a high-pitched, birdlike noise. “But Master Bofur, I simply can’t _afford_ that, but I _guarantee_ you having an item of yours on _my_ mantle will bring you a great deal of future business. I am known for my excellent taste.”

“No deal.” He tugged a bit at his beard, which was rather too silky for his tastes but just refused to roughen up. “Are you related to Bilbo Baggins, by any chance? Of Bag End?”

Lobelia Sackville-Baggins poked out her lower lip. “He’s my husband’s cousin.”

Bofur grinned. “Ah, you know him then! I was hoping to find a relative, and ask how he’s faring.”

Lobelia frowned. “How do you know Bilbo?”

“Just here and there around the fair. We were neighbors last festival, booth-wise, and I’d heard he’s . . . had a hard year. I was disappointed not to see him.”

The woman’s eyes and painted lips softened a bit. “He has,” she murmured. “Stubborn old thing. Doesn’t want anyone fussing over him.”

“Is there . . . I don’t know how Hobbits handle this sort of thing. Is there a way to offer my regards?”

The gaze sharpened again, assessing. Lobelia Sackville-Baggins’s eyes flicked up and down Bofur, weighing carefully before she answered, in a would-be-offhand voice, “He’s in a baking frenzy at the moment. It’s how he relaxes.” She studied her carefully buffed and shined nails. “I might have a way you could be useful to him, as a partial payment on one of those moving birds of yours.”

Bofur laughed. Audacity was something a dwarf could appreciate. He reached up and lifted down one of the finely carved birds, every feather and joint perfect. Bofur was a fair carver, but work like this took Bifur’s genius. “All right, then,” he said with a grin. “I’ll shave a third off the price for the additional service.”

The Hobbit lass looked him over again, a hint of a smile twitching at the corner of her mouth as she said, “It’s a deal,” and held out her hands for the figure.

~~~

Bilbo Baggins was tired.

He ached in every muscle, his back and his shoulders and especially his hands, from kneading dough and hauling firewood, from manipulating heavy cooking ware and hauling water. It was a good ache though, better than the strange, dull throb that came and went deep in his chest in the months since-

Well.

He liked to keep busy.

“I could have handled the dwarves, too,” he muttered, but he knew it probably wasn’t true. Next time Hobbiton’s turn to host a Dwarf Festival rolled around, he’d be ready; but this time – his grandfather was right. He needed to limit his focus. 

And so he had, focusing on the dance tonight in the party field, and on all the baked goods that would be needed. Hobbits required a lot of sustenance to keep dancing all night with the proper abandon. The dance was a very Hobbity affair – the dwarves were, of course, politely invited, but only a handful had ever taken the Hobbits up on the invitation. Considering their reputation as great warriors, they were certainly a very nervous and overly serious race. 

Belladonna was known for convincing a dwarf or two to come every year, but even she hadn’t been able to get them to relax enough to dance properly, and Bungo would make sure the best ale was available for their guests-

The pain came back, sharp in his chest, under the beating of his heart.

Bilbo huffed and looked around the field, his hands on his hips. “I need more tables,” he told the air, “and Hobbits to haul them.”

“How about a dwarf?”

Bilbo did _not_ jump, because he was a grown and respectable Hobbit these days, but he did perhaps _flinch_ a little at the familiar voice of his cousin’s wife booming out from behind him. Lobelia came in only two volumes: the flirtatious simper and master-at-arms. This was her “shouting from horseback to her various minions” voice. “Lobelia,” he greeted as he turned, “I’m a bit busy just now-”

“I know. That’s why I’ve brought you a volunteer to haul tables and . . . whatever else you might need,” Lobelia answered. She was wearing one of her finest dresses, green, yellow, and red, richly made and perfectly tailored, and she looked as pretty as any picture on sale at the festival. Beside her perfect, colorful, curly-haired, decidedly Hobbity self, the dwarf she was motioning to stood out in dark, well-worn relief.

“Oh dear,” he said, but he didn’t really mean to say it out loud.

“Hello again, Master Baggins,” the dwarf said, and his beard was longer, and he was wearing his braids differently (four this time, two thick in the back and two thin in the front to hold his hair from his eyes), but it was definitely-

“Mister Bofur,” he returned carefully, offering a small bow as the dwarves did to each other. 

It was returned promptly, with an additional, “At your service, Mister Baggins. Your fine cousin suggested I might be of some use to you in setting up for the party you’re hosting tonight?”

_Why in the SHIRE would Lobelia bring me a DWARF?!_

“Excuse us a moment,” Bilbo said, and, grabbing his cousin-in-law’s wrist, drew her away for a hissed conversation about that very topic. 

“He wanted to see you,” she said airily, “and I agreed to bring him by.”

“Yes, but _why_?!”

Lobelia gave him her very best hairy eyeball. “You have heavy tables to lug around and he’s a _dwarf_. I am _helping you out_ and really, you should be less suspicious and more grateful.” She flicked out her parasol in a single, practiced motion. “Besides, he sells the most beautiful and darling wooden trinkets. I want the family on his good side.” Her eyes bored into him, and how could she be so demanding when she was two years younger than him?! “Which you, _Master_ Baggins, will see to!”

And she was off, in a rustle of skirts.

Bilbo sighed. 

He was _not_ in the business of babysitting dwarves!

He had _work_ to do!

He would just tell this overly-friendly, undwarfish dwarf to be on his way, so he could get said work done quickly and efficiently. It would only take a few Cottons to get everything set up.

Yes.

Exactly.

He turned to do so.

And found his guest standing with an entire table lifted in the air, watching him curiously. 

His mouth fell open. It took three Hobbits to properly haul those things around.

“Where will you want this, then?” Bofur asked politely, and gave the heavy wood an interrogative shake.

Bilbo wasn’t terribly used to bossing people around. Usually, his mother did the bossing while he and his father hung in the background, admiring her work or hopping-to as the case may be. But Bofur actually made it fairly easy. He worked quickly and efficiently, hauling tables and chairs, laying out platters, hanging lights. Occasionally, he got a little off-task, but in such ridiculous ways that Bilbo didn’t quite know what to say.

How do you tell someone half a foot taller than you and twice as broad to _stop balancing that chair on your shoulders, are you mad?!_

“Maybe a little mad,” Bofur answered with a grin as he shifted minutely on his heavy boots, and when had Bilbo lost the ability to filter what came out of his mouth? “Most miners are. Bit of a side effect of the job, really.”

“You’re a miner- _don’t drop it_!”

Bofur flipped the chair in question neatly into place, grinning cheekily. “Aye, I am, a good many of us are.”

“But you sell toys!”

Bofur’s smile spread into a grin. “You noticed? I thought you’d never glanced my way!”

Bilbo felt his ears warm. He covered it up by stomping off to the house to arrange the baskets of fried dough and other pastries. His escape was less than effective: Bofur followed right on his heels. “My goodness,” the dwarf said conversationally, “that is a lot of pastry.”

Bilbo looked around.

His entire kitchen was buried under pastries. So was his dining room, come to that. Stacks of pastries, baskets of pastries: custard tarts, rhubarb pie, angel cake, fried doughnuts, lemon tarts, blueberry scones, cinnamon scones . . . 

It really was rather a lot, when you looked at it.

“Yes, well,” he said officiously, dusting his hands together, “there will be a lot of Hobbits to feed.”

“Ah, aye,” Bofur agreed, eyeing a platter of mince tarts with interest. “Though you’ve enough to build a burrow or two here. ” He perched his hands on his hips and wiggled his upper lip in a way that made his sleek mustache dance. “And really, if they should all fall on your in a heap, you can eat your way to freedom, so it’s an important safety innovation as well.”

For a moment, Bilbo stared at him.

Then something fluttered in his chest, something old and once-familiar, but now it tickled in throat as if it was something entirely new as he felt his lips curve as they once had so easily. It was a _terrible_ joke. Just. Just horrible. Friends had told him much better stories since _it_ all happened, and they hadn’t been enough to chip away at the low ache in his chest. But here he was in his own kitchen – his parents’ kitchen, where his father should have been – with a dwarf staring thoughtfully at a teetering pile of tarts, and there was this fluttering around his heart.

“I suppose,” Bofur said, “you could use a good thick icing as a sort of mortar.”

Bilbo laughed.

For the first time in weeks he laughed, bubbling up around all the aches and pains into a rolling chuckle.

Bofur winked at him. “Also, you could reinforce corners with baguettes.”

Here came the proper laugh, too much really for the joke, but it just felt so _good._ He could imagine how much his father would have loved the idea, how he would have sat this dwarf down and planned out a whole blueprint, just for the challenge. The thought only made him laugh harder – his carefully dressed father in his favorite orange vest with green flowers, this dwarf in his rough brown and black, crowding together at the little desk in his father’s office. 

His father would have loved the joke. His mother would have been marvelously pleased at a dwarf in the smial. 

Tears pricked his eyes, but they were good tears, warm instead of desperate. 

~~~~

 _Now that,_ Bofur thought, _is a sight to see_.

~~~~

Bofur stayed for the dance. 

Not only did he stay, but he actually danced, grinning and stomping for a group of chattering tweenagers who tried to match his strange, heavy movements.

Bilbo, tucked safely behind one of his (many) pastry tables, watched. 

And smiled.

~~~

 

Three long days of sales later, days that made Bofur question the wisdom of taking off one afternoon to set up tables and pastries and one night to overindulge on strong Hobbit ale, a package arrived at the dwarf camp. Everyone was packed up and ready to go, his fellows chattering excitedly about the prospect of seeing home again. 

Bofur, however, was just a little sad.

He liked the Hobbits. He liked the Shire. He was even developing an affection for sunshine. And their ale was excellent, next-morning-headache notwithstanding. 

And of course, there was Mr. Bilbo Baggins, of Bag End, with his sad eyes and lovely laugh, who needed someone underfoot and about to remind him that life could have some fun in it, no matter the situation. That he also baked the finest rhubarb pie Bofur had ever tasted was only a bonus reason to wish for a little more time in Hobbiton.

Bofur even admitted to himself that he’d been showing off when he hauled those tables around.

Just a little.

His back didn’t appreciate it later, but at the time, well. Seeing that incredibly expressive face looking so shocked and almost _annoyed_ was just completely worth it.

Bofur’s musing was interrupted by the arrival of one of the Shire’s posthobbits, accompanied by a huge bear of a dwarf who towered suspiciously over both of them: Dwalin, Balin’s younger brother.

“Are you Bofur, son of Kefur?”

“Aye, laddie, that I am.” Bofur smiled at the lad, whose hands were trembling nervously – no doubt due to the bulging layers of muscle and tattoos behind his left shoulder. “What can I do for you?”

“I’ve a package for you,” the messenger said, and shoved a cleverly folded box in the direction of Bofur’s stomach. “And now I’ve delivered it, so I’ll be on my way!”

Dwalin grunted. Bofur rolled his eyes and opened the little tucked in flap. The box wasn’t made of stone or wood – it was of thick paper, folded just so, and much like the one Bilbo had pushed in his hands all those years ago when they first met.

Hobbits were so clever! 

When he saw what was inside his package, Bofur let out a bark of a laugh that softened into a steady chuckle as he lifted it out and turned it in his hands.

On a solid white plate of delicate Hobbit make was a smial, rising gently from the plate under thick icing, ribbed with what had to be cake underneath, and a sweet round doughnut of a door. 

There wasn’t a note, but really.

Bofur didn’t need one.


	4. Scotchies

Bofur decided not to pretend he wasn’t looking for Bilbo Baggins the next time he came to the Shire. 

He’d missed a festival, due to a mining accident that left him unscathed but having to work enough for three dwarves while members of his family healed. At the time he’d been – well, not precisely happy to do it, being a dwarf less enamored of the mining lifestyle than many of his fellows, but at least acquiescent to the necessity of needing all hands working constantly - but as soon as he heard that the caravan had left the mountain he chafed.

He missed the sun, and chattering Hobbit voices, and delicious pastries that weren’t always covered in a light coating of dust.

So he worked hard. He worked until he was so exhausted he felt ill, until they were back to full capacity. Then he started to jealously guard his time off, learning more about Bifur’s delicate craftsmanship and developing his skill on the clarinet. If one thing didn’t get him back to the Shire for the next Festival, he’d see that the other did. 

He needn’t have worried. He was actually on the list before he had a chance to sign up, welcomed aboard by a gently smiling Balin and his glaring big-little-brother. He ended up sharing a cart with a pair of brothers named Dori and Nori who couldn’t get along for five minutes but managed to nevertheless be fiercely protective both of each other and their mother and baby brother back home. Bunking with two such strong personalities on the road certainly made for an interesting journey, but they would also ignore him for prolonged periods of brotherly bickering, allowing Bofur to sneak off and do some reconnaissance in the meantime.

Tookborough. 

Tookborough was one of the two largest and richest areas of the Shire, and the Festival there was legendary. Whenever word spread through the mountain that the Tooks would be hosting, every dwarf with even a slim interest in leaving the mountain scrambled to get his or her name on the list. The Tooks were extravagant and friendly and perhaps a bit odd by Hobbit standards, which made them fit in just that little bit better with a rowdy group of visiting dwarves. They also, as a bonus, sold excellent pipeweed such as couldn’t be found in the Mountain. Of course their merchants would bring back stock to sell, but there was something to be said with being on-site to taste, test, and sniff your own supply.

More important to Bofur, however, was the fact that the Tooks were related to his Mr. Baggins, so he figured there was a good chance said Mr. Baggins would be out and about somewhere, giving passers-by the evil eye and selling delicious cakes. 

And Bofur was going to find him. 

And bug him.

. . . And perhaps try to have an actual, adult conversation with him, for once.

There was, of course, the problem of locating him at what he now understood would be a festival perhaps three times the size of the previous ones he’d wrangled an invite too, but he figured he could just follow his nose.

It worked.

In a way.

Well, he did ask about twelve Hobbits, each more obviously curious at his inquiries than the last, but once he was in the correct general _area_ his nose definitely took over, leading him down a little side lane to a cottage that smelled very thoroughly of Pure Delight.

Bofur knocked on the door.

~~~

Bilbo was feeling especially pissy.

He had good cause to. It was his oven. Or rather, the oven provided to him by his grandfather the Thain, who clearly enough knew absolutely _nothing_ about baking. If he did, he would have known that a baker is only as good as his oven, and wouldn’t have had the bare-toed _effrontery_ to expect Bilbo to work out of a cabin with an oven that couldn’t hold temperature properly. Most likely, the Thain had asked, “Where’s the biggest oven around outside the Great Smial?” and been directed here. Because it was a _large_ oven, and a _lovely_ kitchen, but a large oven that burnt the bottom and left the centers practically _raw dough_ was no use at all!

He huffed. 

And threw on another log.

Which he removed less than three minutes later.

He had soot on his hands and his hips and definitely, he suspected, on his nose, and his last tray of scones simply _were not up to par_. He’d not had a single complaint, of course (a slightly over toasted Baggins scone is still a Baggins scone, after all), but he wasn’t pleased. No. Not pleased at all.

“Just work you pile of junk!” he told the oven crossly, giving it a solid kick in the extremely hot belly. The resulting curse of pain, along with his panicked concern that he smelled burning foot hair, kept him from hearing the brush of sturdy dwarvish boots from the doorway.

“Really now,” rumbled a friendly voice in the accented Westron unique to certain of their dwarvish guests, “is that any way for a gentlehobbit to behave? Attacking innocent kitchenware and calling it names?”

Bilbo nearly threw a roll right at that jaunty smile. Bofur, son of Kefur, would have deserved it if he did, for sneaking up on him, and for missing the last festival when Bilbo had (definitely not) looked for him, and definitely for wearing that frightful hat on his head that looked like a family of depressed squirrels. “You!” he accused, raising a finger and giving his very best point, the one he learned from Belladonna.

Bofur grinned. “Me!” he agreed, and swept into a deep bow. The hat, amazingly (perhaps tragically) didn’t fall off. “Bofur, at your service.”

“I know who you are,” Bilbo huffed as his guest straightened. There were the familiar braids, and the broad smile, and his beard wasn’t all long and fluffed out like most of the other dwarves, but limited to a long, slippery looking mustache. His eyes, Bilbo abruptly noticed, were a sort of dark hazel.

 _Do not_ , Bilbo told himself firmly, _go wondering about and noticing the eye colors of dwarves like a lovesick teenager._

Every decent Hobbit had a bit of a spot for dwarves in their rebellious tweens, but he definitely wasn’t a tween anymore and, of course, no Hobbit would ever do anything about their crushes beyond sighing longingly when the dwarves went away.

Bofur beamed at him, which just was not how dwarves were supposed to behave, and said cheerfully, “I’m glad I finally stuck in your mind, then. It took a few times.”

Bilbo didn’t blush or stutter, because he was a grown Hobbit with responsibilities who didn’t sit around worrying about making a fool of himself over thirty years earlier. No, he remained calm and collected as he lifted his right foot behind him to rub surreptitiously at his sore toe. “Is there something I can do for you?”

Bofur shifted his weight to lean against the curve of the doorway. He seemed to over-fill it; he was taller than Bilbo, yes, but also just significantly more _square_ , broad in the shoulders where Bilbo was narrow, thick in the waist but not soft. “I came here in search of food.” He paused a moment before clearing his throat and adding, in a rather odd voice, “And you.”

“And me?”

“Aye. I was looking for you.” If this dwarf was capable of being shy – which Bilbo seriously doubted – he was now, studying the ceiling in an apparent bid to avoid looking Bilbo in the eye. “I’ve, ah,” he lowered his gaze, “well. I was looking for you.”

“ . . . How did you find me?”

“I asked around,” Bofur said, and there was the cheeky grin again as he tapped the side of his long nose, “and then I sniffed around.”

“You asked around,” Bilbo replied, just imagining how that was going to be received. It would be all over the Shire in an hour that a dwarf had been wandering around looking for Mr. Bilbo Baggins of Bag End. 

….He wasn’t sure he really minded.

“I’m not giving you anything for free,” Bilbo warned, even as he moved to try and grab up one of the least objectionable confectionary to offer his guest, “this is a business, you know.”

“It’s a charity, actually,” Bofur responded, accepting the blueberry tart graciously before biting the entire thing in half and chewing away with clear signs of enjoyment. “You put the proceeds in a fund for your tenants in case of emergencies. One of the Tooks – don’t ask me which one, there appear to be hundreds - told me about it when I asked where you were.” Crumbs speckled their way along his mustache. 

He hadn’t quite swallowed the second half when he said, with a look of chipmunk cheeked concern, “This is burnt.”

Bilbo felt his ears go hot. “No it’s not!”

“Yes it is.” Bofur turned the tart over and looked at the bottom, which certainly was _not_ burned. Just. ….a little more brownish than was optimal. Even with a terrible oven, Bilbo Baggins did not burn pastry! “See here? It baked too fast. It’s a bit burnt and the dough hasn’t set as well as it usually does.”

Bilbo felt his eyes narrow.

 _Don’t get angry_ , he told himself, _don’t overreact._

_It’s not his fault the oven was sent straight from Malkor to this kitchen._

His hands twitched. He took a calming breath.

_Be calm and collected. Do not kick the oven again. The oven will win._

It had been a very long morning. 

“Well if you don’t like it,” he snapped, “then don’t eat it!”

Bofur raised both rather fluffy eyebrows at him. He leaned to the side, peering around Bilbo. Then, without so much as a by-your-leave, he waltzed right around the Hobbit and squatted in front of the iron monstrosity. “What are you-”

The dwarf flipped the door open, seemingly unperturbed by the rush of boiling hot air this earned him, made a thoughtful noise, poked his nose practically on top of the flame, then said, “I can fix this.”

“You’re going to _burn your beard_ what are you even-what?”

The dwarf motioned with one broad hand to the open oven. “I can fix this. If it’s made of iron and metal, you let me get my hands on it and it’ll be set to rights.”

Bilbo shuffled cautiously forward and knelt beside him, soft Hobbit arm pressed along hard dwarven one. “You can?”

“Aye.” Bofur’s eyes crinkled at the edges when he smiled. Bilbo suddenly wondered how old he actually was. He seemed much the same age he was when they met, and he knew that dwarves lived very long lives. Not so long as elves, of course, but much longer than Men or even Hobbits. “It’s simple enough. Reshape it a bit, adjust the curve here, and lay the fire a bit differently, and you’ll have proper control of the heat.” He started rolling up his heavy sleeves. “Bring me the shovel and I’ll get started on it.”

“Don’t you . . . have things to sell?” Bilbo asked, even as he moved to fetch the requested materials. 

“It’ll sell well enough tomorrow. Can’t be easy in my mind without a decent Baggins pie in my belly, now can I?” 

Bilbo laughed softly as the dwarf set to work.

Bofur seemed to find it very easy to make Bilbo laugh. Bilbo couldn’t say he minded.

~~~~

It took rather more time than Bofur had expected to set the oven to rights.

It was an old thing, and solid, and he’d had to leave twice to borrow tools from blacksmiths and been delayed once by curious dwarves wanting to know why he hadn’t set up his booth (“Really, we could use the space filled with your storage!” Dori had fussed, but Bofur had other things to be getting on with and wouldn’t be drawn away from the rambling conversations he’d managed to draw his favorite Hobbit into as he worked for anything). He’d banged and adjusted, cursed and calmed, and chatted, chatted, chatted with Bilbo, son of Bungo and Belladonna.

All in all, it was one of his very favorite afternoons in recent memory.

. . . Quite possibly in all memory.

It was after nightfall, however, with Bilbo fussing over his shoulder about how he really must stop and eat, this just wouldn’t do, he would waste away, that Bofur pronounced the project completed and carefully coached Bilbo on the best way to lay a fire in an oven of this size. 

Bilbo, dinner abruptly forgotten, immediately began mixing a batter for muffins. Bofur chuckled and sneaked to the pantry, where he found enough to throw together a meal of cold meats and cheeses, which Bilbo fell on like a starving wolf as soon as his muffins were in the oven.

How in the world did Hobbits stay so small?! They should be the size of Men – no, the size of the legendary stone giants, as much food as they packed away.

The muffins were perfect, fluffy and warm, and perhaps Bofur might admit that seeing a pink-cheeked, beaming Hobbit made all the work (and his secretly smashed thumb) completely worth it. Seeing the somewhat fastidious Mr. Baggins talking with his mouth full was also one of the funniest sights of Bofur’s life.

“Perfect!”

“I told you I’d fix it.”

“You must let me pay you!” Bilbo swallowed, blushing at his manners and grabbing a napkin (also made of snowy linen, what did these people do with proper scraps?). “I took you away from your work all day.”

Bofur scowled darkly. “I’d not want payment from a friend,” he said, a bit stung. Bilbo’s eyes widened. “Though perhaps I presumed-”

“No!” Bilbo squeaked, and wasn’t that cute? “No, you didn’t presume it’s just-I’m-we’ve-” he stopped and took a breath. “I’m a bit odd,” he said, “so I’ve more acquaintances than friends. It’s. Something to get used to.” He smiled, awkward and a bit shy, and his pretty eyes seemed to sparkle a bit. “And I do feel bad for your loss of revenue.”

Bofur beamed. He couldn’t help it. Warm embers flared in his chest and he realized, not so very abruptly but more inevitably, that perhaps he was in a bit of trouble as regarded Mr. Bilbo Baggins. “Then let me bake something.”

Bilbo’s eyebrows rose. “What?”

“In payment. You provide the ingredients, and let me cook something. I don’t often get to bake, and certainly not so fine an oven as this.” Bofur crossed his arms. “It’s only fair.”

The sight of those fair eyebrows lowering in protective consternation was a delight to behold.

The poor hobbit. He wouldn’t want Bofur anywhere near _his_ oven, with _his_ ingredients. But his good manners would force him to give in.

Bofur grinned.

Bilbo sighed.

“It doesn’t seem like payment to make _me_ something-”

“Ah, but it will be.” Bofur offered a bribe, “And it’ll be something you’ve never had.”

This piqued Bilbo’s interest. It showed in the line of his narrow shoulders and the twitch of his delightfully sassy nose. “Something I’ve never had?”

Bofur nodded, “At least as far as I’ve seen. They’re small, a bit hard, and easy to carry down into the mines. They’d probably sell well at something like the festival, since they’re so portable.” He looked around. “Do you have oats here anywhere, by chance?”

He watched from the corner of his eye as Bilbo chewed on his bottom lip and scowled at an offensive corner. The dwarf allowed the hobbit a moment to come to terms with his curiosity and manners vs. his pride and protectiveness. Really, Bilbo’s face and hands were among the most fascinating things Bofur had every studied. 

“Oats,” Bilbo said, lifting his small chin and crossing to a cabinet. 

~~~~

Bilbo found Bofur as fascinating as Bofur found him.

He was funny, and friendly, and not at all as uptight as the other dwarves who came through. They always looked uncomfortable and wary, as if they might get attacked by or accidentally harm a hobbit at any moment. But Bofur also wasn’t nosy, and didn’t find Bilbo’s interest in folk tales and songs at all odd or boring, as hobbits might. And he was big, tall and broad in a way that Bilbo found surprisingly attractive.

Not that he found Bofur attractive, of course.

All that facial hair, and those silly boots, and those thick hands.

Certainly not.

It had been fascinating to watch him work, though, stripping off his heavy outer coat, and then what appeared to be a thinner _inner_ coat, which had taken at least two inches off the breadth of his shoulders. Then there’d been the creative curses and obvious strength as he banged away, seemingly randomly, at the inside of the stove. Finally, there’d been the calm patience in his voice as he explained the best way to lay the fire – patient, but not condescending – and the steady movements of his hands. 

Now there was this: something called _butterscotch._

Bofur chatted as he worked, but not about what he was doing, which involved brown sugar and oil, cream and salt, though he did lament the lack of something called “rum” to add flavor. He mixed and poured and chopped, making chips similar to chocolate chips but completely different in flavor. 

“Try one,” he said, popping a chip into Bilbo’s unsuspecting mouth.

It melted on his tongue, a bit salty but otherwise almost too-sweet. 

Bofur chuckled at his expression. It was a very dwarvish sound, too low for a hobbit. “It’s a bit much on its own,” he admitted, “but it’s an excellent sauce, and we’ll be making something with it to cut the sweetness a bit.”

That was when he reached for the oats. 

The dough was strange, if it could even be called a dough at all and not a _mush_ , mostly wet but still a bit dry, and the oats were raw. Bilbo watched, skeptical, as Bofur spooned out little mounds of his oats-flour-butterscotch concoction onto one of Bilbo’s baking sheets. Bofur was humming cheerfully to himself, so clearly he thought he was doing something right, but Bilbo was inwardly cringing at the thought of eating the flat, wet discs of . . . whatever.

“Scotchies,” Bofur said when he asked, “and stop looking so suspicious. They’re delicious.”

Bilbo, very politely, did not believe him. 

During the baking stage, which did, Bilbo had to admit, fill the kitchen with a lovely aroma, Bofur pulled out a clarinet and, much to Bilbo’s delight, started playing. By the time the scotchies were ready, they were leaning close over one of Bilbo’s poems, talking about the possibility of setting it to music. 

It was a lot of fun, tucked away in this kitchen, the warm light from the stove and a scattering of candles providing a haven from the cool darkness beyond the cottage’s windows. It reminded him of those years of his childhood, before he became the young bachelor Mr. Baggins, all alone in that great big smial. It was different, though, because he’d never felt this flush of embarrassed pleasure at his parents ‘or cousins’ company, the little flutter in his belly when Bofur laughed.

He liked it. It felt exciting, after years of relative solitude and respectable boredom. 

Bofur stopped mid-sentence, tilting his head and sniffing the air. “They’re done!” he announced, and hopped out of his chair. Bilbo jumped a bit, turned in his seat, and watched as Bofur – the daft fool, grabbed a thin towel to pull out the piping hot baking sheets.

“You’ll burn yourself!”

“I’m a dwarf!” Bofur grinned, setting it down carefully. There were discs on the sheets, the right size to settle in the palm, and they did smell delicious. Bilbo stood and slid closer, his own nose twitching now. “Just let them cool a bit, though they’re wonderful warm. My little brother can eat a flat dozen warm Scotchies, so we always have to make about five dozen to last a week.” He winked.

Bilbo smiled at the dwarf’s back as he fussed the scotchies onto a cooling rack, wider than he had it quite a while. 

It felt good.

“Here we are then!” Bofur turned, holding out hand. Bilbo looked at it curiously until the thick fingers wiggled. “Give me your hand.”

“Oh.” Bilbo did, blushing a bit (yes, definitely blushing now), the back of his hand narrow and soft against the strange hard callouses of Bofur’s palm. Bofur grinned saucily and set one of the Scotchies in it. 

It was very disconcerting to taste something under the grinning scrutiny of that mustache and cheerful eyes, but Bilbo did it. 

“It’s delicious!”

The mustache and smile turned utterly smug. Bofur leaned back, perching his hip against the counter. “I told you.”

“It’s just,” Bilbo stared at the thing in his hand in awe. The butterscotch melted on his tongue, the oatmeal added texture and cut the sweetness, and it was such a convenient size, “It’s wonderful.”

Bofur crossed his arms, pleased. “And when they’re not warm, they hold their shape better. Convenient for carting around the mines.” He tapped the side of his nose. “Or around a Hobbit festival.”

Bilbo hummed thoughtfully. “We could make a cone with paper and put several in . . .” he mused. “They’d sell out even faster if I say they’re a secret dwarf recipe.”

Bofur laughed. “You’re a proper dwarf sometimes,” he chuckled as he moved to pick up the first of his coats, tugging it on over his dark brown, carefully embroidered shirt, “thinking of the best way to make a coin.”

Bilbo picked up another scotchie, breaking it in half with fidgety fingers. “Are you leaving?”

“It’s gotten late. I should get back to camp. I’m sure my tent mates are having a lovely row and I’m missing it.” Bofur grabbed his second coat.

Bilbo didn’t think. He didn’t give himself time to think, because if he did he would rationalize this moment away. Instead he blurted, “You could stay here!”

“Ah?” Bofur froze.

“There are two bedrooms. You could have the other. It’s late, too late to be out and about if you don’t know your way around. If your, ah, prince won’t mind,” and don’t think Bilbo didn’t see the twitch of a grin under Bofur’s mustache at that, or that his eyes didn’t narrow and his nose didn’t wiggle a bit in embarrassment, “you could just stay here, and head back out in the morning.” He offered a rusty little grin of his own. “I’ve no brothers to fight with, so maybe you can get enough sleep to catch up on all the work you missed thanks to my oven.”

There was a beat as dwarf and hobbit studied each other, something awkward and promising in the air.

~~~~

Bofur’s father once told him about falling in love.

He said it was a moment when something clicked into place, a new piece of yourself that fit in neatly for the first time.

Nothing clicked when Bilbo Baggins turned a crooked smile on him and asked to have his company a little longer. But something . . . 

Appeared.

Something with uneven edges that needed to be shaved down a bit, beveled into shape, but it could certainly fit…somewhere.

A thing made of twitching noses and sassy glares and poems and pastries.

“I’d like that,” he said, because he would. He’d like to see that face again in the morning, and listen to that voice prattle on, and see if the edges of his something started smoothing out the right way. “My prince won’t mind. He wouldn’t notice I’m away.” Which was true, though Dori and Nori might; more likely, though, they’d assume he was still out and go blissfully to sleep over their latest bout of bickering.

There was the crooked smile in question, and a shift of the hairy feet, the long fingers twisting together a bit, as Bilbo said, “And if you sell everything, and have some time, perhaps you could teach me to make scotchies properly.”

“There are other kinds as well. We call them biscuits. I’ll teach you to make several.”

Bilbo’s smile spread and Bofur’s chest warmed. 

Oh, he was in _trouble._

…But well. He’d always been fond of a bit of trouble. 

“Thank you.”

Bofur shook his head. “But I can’t do it for free.” The smile disappeared and Bofur felt like an utter cad, but he pressed on. “I am a dwarf. We do charge for our services, and being the sole biscuit supplier in all of Hobbiton will bring in a lot of money for your fund. I couldn’t go home and tell my family I’d given away that sort of information for free.”

Home, away from the sun and the hobbits, the ale and the laughter, and from those hazel eyes narrowing at him suspiciously again. 

“What do you want, then?” Bilbo asked, and Bofur hoped the disappointment he thought he saw was real, that it was because he wanted to think of them more as friends than as business associates.

Bofur was known among his kin for his cheeky daring. He climbed where others wouldn’t, dug where others said there was nothing, and asked year after year to attend events outside the safe walls of the mountain. Bofur took risks every day.

But this was the biggest risk of his life.

He grinned to himself.

He always liked a spot of excitement, too.

Deliberately, Bofur slid a foot forward, leaned down, and pressed his lips, for only a moment, against that pale forehead. Bilbo smelled of pastry and fruit jam and a hint of very dwarvish butterscotch. 

He liked the combination.

“One of those will do,” he said, his voice completely even while his heart did somersaults at this entirely new level of cheek.

When Bilbo didn’t react right away, Bofur’s brain said: _You’ve caused an international incident and our people will starve because you kissed a Hobbit. A RICH Hobbit. A relative of the THAIN Hobbit, almost a PRINCE Hobbit_ -

Bilbo smiled.

It was a new smile, neither gap-toothed nor nervous nor grieving nor irritated. It was mischievous and young, and very, very attractive.

“One for each recipe, then,” he agreed, “but I get to decide where they go.”

Bofur laughed, deep and rich and smooth around the edges.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Scotchies**
> 
>  
> 
> 1 1/4 cups all-purpose flour  
> 1 teaspoon baking soda  
> 1/2 teaspoon salt  
> 1/2 teaspoon ground cinnamon  
> 1 cup (2 sticks) butter or margarine  
> 3/4 cup granulated sugar  
> 3/4 cup packed brown sugar  
> 2 large eggs  
> grated peel of 1 orange  
> 3 cups old-fashioned oats  
> 1 2/3 cups butterscotch chips
> 
> PREHEAT oven to 375° F. 
> 
> COMBINE flour, baking soda, salt and cinnamon in small bowl. Beat butter, granulated sugar, brown sugar, eggs and vanilla extract in large mixer bowl. Gradually beat in flour mixture. Stir in oats and morsels. Drop by rounded tablespoon onto ungreased baking sheets. 
> 
> BAKE for 7 to 8 minutes for chewy cookies or 9 to 10 minutes for crisp cookies. Cool on baking sheets for 2 minutes; remove to wire racks to cool completely.
> 
>  
> 
> _I'm American, so forgive the not-very-Hobbity measurements :)_

**Author's Note:**

> [Blanket Permission Statement](http://dragonsquill.tumblr.com/permission)


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